


storybook endings (fairytales coming true)

by ealianarrain



Series: Tales of Arlise [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hallmark AU, Language Kink, Multi, Rating will go up in later chapters, Romance, Sappy, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealianarrain/pseuds/ealianarrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Arla Lavellan is - content. She has a good job - so what if it’s at the chain bookstore that put her foster-father’s independent out of business? She has amazing friends (varied and weird though they may be), a lovely apartment, and a faithful cat for company.</i><br/>And yet, as Leliana continuously points out, ‘content’ is not the same as ‘happy’. Not quite.<br/> </p><p>The Hallmark AU for I started for Solas fluff friday - because what's fluffier than Hallmark? Based on the film 'In My Dreams', which is adorable smooch and you should all go watch it. I hope this goes some way to healing your wounds, Fen'Harem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Skyhaven was stunningly beautiful in the early autumn.

 

Arla pushed up the sash window with a steady effort, letting the crisp air of the chilly Monday morning whisk into her apartment, rustling the curtains as she swung herself up into the sill and braced her back against the side of the aperture, one leg dangling down to the platform of the fire-escape immediately below. Her bare toes brushed the chilled metal, and she cradled the steaming mug between her hands, feeling, however briefly, peaceful and content with the world, gazing out over the sun-drenched morning. Her southern-facing window afforded her an unbroken view over the rooftops, sweeping away towards the snowcapped mountains, the distant fortress of Skyhold just visible, a looming shadow among the crags where the dawn had not yet reached.

‘Freezy-tits!’ someone said in tones of surprise, and Arla looked down through the metal grate to the next level of fire-escape – where an upturned face, streaked with paint yet still familiar, was looking up at her.

‘Sera!’ she said, startled, and then – ‘wait, is this you only just getting in? It’s six am!’

‘Yeah, but they won didn’t they?’ Sera grinned, swaying slightly. An emerald feather boa, draped around her shoulders like a taxonomically-confused boa constrictor, shed some of its plumage mournfully. ‘Eat ice, assholes.’

Arla shook her head fondly, setting her mug down carefully on the sill. ‘Well, good for them. I’ll text Krem later. Right now I’m more worried about the class you have in three hours.’

‘Cancelled!’ Sera sang, eyes looking slightly glazed. ‘Turns out Kenric’s a fan. He was still there when I left.’

‘How responsible.’ Arla muttered, and swung herself down onto the platform, then down again to Sera’s level to wrestle her window open. ‘Why you’ll never just use the door I don’t know – let’s get you into bed, drunky.’

Sera leered.

 

It took some doing, but within half an hour the younger elf was sprawled out on her bed and snoring drunkenly, divested off most of her alchohol-soaked clothing and tucked firmly under the multicoloured patchwork duvet, a judicious bucket, glass of water, and two painkillers left on her bedside table. Arla shook her head, fondly exasperated, and brushed a chunk of hair out of the sleeping girl’s eyes.

‘The sooner Dagna comes home, the better.’ she said, and closed the bedroom curtains against the rising sun before she returned to her own apartment via the fire-escape, earning a tolerantly amused look from her upstairs neighbour as he leaned out to water his plants.

Inside, the clock reminded her that Sera’s escapades had cut severely into her morning routine, and she had half an hour to make herself presentable and meet the girls for breakfast up at the keep – a fifteen minute drive away on the shuttle. Mial meowed plaintively as she skidded across the wooden floor in hastily pulled on socks, serving him up his breakfast and winding her long hair into a braid as she reached for her uniform hanging above the dryer, mentally thanking Deshanna for her well ingrained habit of laying out everything she would need the night before. It took some doing, but within ten minutes she was dressed, made-up, and locking the apartment door behind her on her rush down to catch the shuttle from the end of the street, the ends of the scarf she had thrown on fluttering merrily in the wind. As the shuttle wound its way through the morning traffic, peoples rushing hither and thither to start their working day, Arla hooked her headphones over her ears, effectively drowning out the sounds of the packed shuttle, and plucked the well-worn ringbound sketchbook from the bottom of her satchel, flipping through the pages with a pensive expression. The worn paper held her attention for the length of the shuttle ride, and the walk from the stop up the winding stone stairs to the Skyhold gardens, her nose pressed close as she sidestepped other pedestrians with the skill of the consummate bookworm, apologising absent-mindedly to the stone edge of the Lover’s Fountain as she barked her shin against the low wall surrounding the wall.

A hand fell on her wrist, brown fingers cold where her sleeve had fallen back, and Arla yelped, spinning to find Josephine laughing openly at her, her dark eyes dancing, looking windswept and chilled.

‘Josie!’ she cried, pushing her headphones back to rest around her neck. ‘Not fair!’

‘I called your name!’ Josephine said defensively, looping her arm through hers and steering her towards their usual table, where Leliana sat waiting, the faux-fur trimmed hood of her coat pushed back to reveal the copper bob of her hair, shining brilliantly in the morning sun. ‘Though I’m not surprised you can’t hear a thing under those giant headphones, they look like the kind construction workers wear. At the point where you apologised to the fountain, I thought more drastic measures were called for.’

‘Oh, is that what I walked into?’ Arla said, surprised, rubbing absently at the sore spot on her shin. ‘That’ll bruise. Morning Leli.’

‘Good morning.’ their floor manager said, cupping her chin in her hands. ‘Welcome back to the world of the conscious. I ordered for you.’

‘You’re the best.’ Arla said, bending to kiss her cheek as Leliana tilted her head, smiling. ‘So apparently the Charger’s won their game last night?’

‘Yes, we went to watch in the end.’ Josephine said, taking the seat next to her. ‘I think poor Stitches lost another tooth. Though he was still at the party in full flow when we left.’

‘Sera didn’t get in until six this morning.’ Arla laughed, unwinding her hair from its hasty braid with a vague thought to doing it up more presentably – until Josephine made a happy sound and held her hand out demandingly for the travel brush Leliana fished from the bottom of her bag.

‘Nothing too complicated.’ Arla sighed, surrendering. ‘Otherwise you pout at me when it inevitably falls apart mid-afternoon. Good grief, Josephine, when is Yvette coming to visit? The sooner the better.’

‘I can’t help the way I was raised.’ Josephine said magnanimously as she set about sectioning and brushing through her thick mane of ashen hair, careful around the delicate, pointed tips of her ears. ‘If you had sisters, you would understand.’

They chatted with the ease of familiarity as Josephine braided and twisted her hair into an elegant chignon with the judicious application of a pack of bobby pins Leliana produced from her seemingly bottomless bag, the conversation segueing easily from one topic to another as their breakfast arrived and was swiftly demolished, all of them beginning to feel the chill even through their heavy coats and jumpers.

‘It will be too cold to keep coming out soon.’ Josephine decided, looking up at the turning leaves of the old oak trees surrounding them. ‘We shall have to move to the cafe.’

‘Not until next week!’ Leliana admonished, getting to her feet. ‘It’s traditional. I think it’s your turn, Josie?’

‘Yes, for the last time this season then!’ Josie said, reaching for her bag. ‘One more breakfast at the Keep, and then I know winter is truly on its way.’

‘I’ll let the rest of the gang know.’ Arla smiled, tucking her scarf beneath the collar of her jacket. ‘Last Sunday brunch at the Keep for the year.’

Leliana looped their arms together. ‘Come to the flower stall with me, I want to pick some up for Varric’s display. We’ll meet you at the car!’

Josephine waved her off, and Arla wandered along with Leliana, back down the path towards the Lover’s Fountain and the wooden wagon that sold flowers, both real and paper, all year round.

 ‘You had your notebook out again.’ Leliana said as they walked, scuffling through the drifts of fallen leaves that were beginning to appear. ‘Still dreaming big dreams?’

Arla sighed, tucking an escaped curl behind her ear. ‘I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop. I know the chances of it coming to anything are slim to nothing – even if I could find the money to buy the building back, there’s a reason the bookshop went out of business in the first place. I’d need to completely overhaul the business model to compete with Chantry Books, and there’d be no guarantee it would work.’

‘We worry about you.’ Leliana said, her sweet accent soft and a little sad. ‘You’re stuck in a rut, my friend – dreaming about the store but not able to move forward, you haven’t been on a single date since you broke up with – what was his name?’

‘Unmentionable.’ Arla said promptly, then wilted under Leliana’s steady gaze. ‘Ugh. Bran.’

‘And that ended terribly.’ Leliana said. ‘Though possibly for the best, thinking about it.’

‘I’m happy, Leli, really I am.’ Arla said. ‘Yes, working at Chantry Books is a bit of a kick in the teeth, but I like who I work with – you and Josie, and Cole. And you run excellent interference with Upstairs, so mostly I can just exist in my little bubble of books. I have wonderful friends, lots of hobbies, a nice apartment, Mial for company – I am perfectly content.’

‘Content, perhaps.’ Leliana allowed. ‘Happy? I don’t think so.’

Her gaze fell on the fountain, and lit up mischievously. ‘Here, buy some flowers for your apartment – there are dahlias in bloom.’

‘Ohh, pretty.’ Arla exclaimed over the riot of rich dark reds and autumnal oranges, glad to put their conversation aside. ‘Yes, I’ll put some in the front room – how much please?’

She handed over several coins, telling the elvhen woman to keep the change – only for Leliana to shake her head emphatically at the seller and point at the fountain. The woman smiled.

‘No my dear.’ she said, pressing the small coins back into Arla’s palm. ‘Your friend has a plan for these.’

‘What? Oh, Leliana, _no_ -’

‘Come on!’ Leliana laughed, taking the dahlias from her hand and steering her to the fountain. ‘If it works, wonderful, if it doesn’t, you’ve hardly lost anything.’

‘It’s just a story!’ Arla protested, digging her heels in against her friend’s determined advance towards the water. ‘The cheesiest, most unbelievable story – you’re not going to drop it until I do this, are you.’

‘No!’ Leliana agreed cheerfully. ‘I will spend all week wearing you down until you come running up here at Sunday brunch to do it of your own accord.’

‘Heavens forbid.’ Arla groused, and took the coin, gazing up at the statue of the intertwined lovers. ‘How ridiculous.’

‘You have to believe, or it will not work.’ Leliana scolded. ‘Close your eyes and wish.’

Arla gave her a very dry look, sighed, and closed her eyes, weighing the cool coin in the palm of her bare hand.

_I wish...I could find the cure for this mi’nas’sal’in._

She flicked the coin in a spinning arc, opening her eyes in time to see it glint in the sun before it vanished beneath the water.

‘Happy now?’ she sighed, blowing the escaped curl out of her eyes yet again as she turned to Leliana.

‘Ecstatic.’ her friend replied, unashamed, and bought several bouquets from the smiling woman at the cart before they headed to Josephine’s car.

 

*

 

‘Interesting architecture.’ Dorian noted, tipping his head back to gaze at the lovers, intertwined in their eternal embrace on the pedestal, icy water cascading over stony limbs. ‘Tevene?’

‘Yes, but an echo of the original.’ Solas said, joining him and handing over the paper cup of coffee he had purchased from the wagon beside the flower stall. Dorian took it gratefully, cupping it in gloved hands, and circled round to the far side of the fountain, absently apologising to the people he bumped into as he walked, his gaze focused on the stonework instead of where he was stepping. Solas followed, tolerantly amused by the graduate student’s curiosity.

‘Lux et umbra vicissim, sed semper amor.’  he read from the pedestals base. ‘Well _that’s_ definitely Tevene. ‘Light and shadow by turn, but always love’. But the design...it’s a mish-mash, isn’t it?’

 ‘ _Lath lanun’ven’ur’alas.’_ Solas said, slipping into his lecturing voice with the comfortable ease of pulling on an old jumper. ‘Roughly translated, ‘Love’s Blessing’ or ‘the Blessing of the Lovers’. Records suggest this is a Tevene copy of the original, a ruin found in the Arlathan forest. How the copy came to reside in Skyhold is unknown, but there is a document in the archives supposedly written by the apprentice of the carver. It seems to imply that parts of the ruined original were used in the creation of this copy, and it records the original incantation in ancient elvhen. I’m dubious about that – the elvhen seems very clumsy to have been the original – but it’s something like ‘ _Lean i banal’ras hasal, y uth lath’._

 ‘How interesting.’ Dorian murmured, stepping aside to let a mother and child pass him. ‘What are the coins about?’

‘An amalgamation of two legends.’ Solas said. ‘The story goes that in the time of Arlathan, people seeking a lover would take offerings of all kinds to the fountain, to give to the waters. Here in a Ferelden a similar tradition holds that kindly spirits guard wells, and if you toss a coin into their water they will grant a wish.’

He pulled a coin from his pocket to demonstrate, arcing it high into the air with a flick of his wrist. ‘Now tourists and romantics toss coins into the water along with a plea to the lovers to grant them dreams of their true love. The story goes that if your wish is granted, you will share dreams with them for seven nights.’

The coin span high in the air, glinted once in the sun, and plunged into the water, sending a cascade of ripples out across the pool. Dorian slanted a sideways glance at him, and grinned.

‘Do let me know if you have any interesting dreams tonight, won’t you Professor?’ he said. ‘Ah, the doors are opening - ’

He moved away, draining his coffee as he headed for the doors to the Great Hall, but Solas lingered briefly at the fountain edge, shading his eyes from the sun with one hand. A pair of women squeezed past him, their arms laden with flowers, and he stepped aside courteously, murmuring an apology as he turned away from the fountain, dismissing the thought that had risen, unbidden and plaintive, in the back of his mind as his coin hit the water.

 

*

 

_Much has been written over the centuries of the effect of small objects in a wider tapestry– the absent minded pebble-toss of a child which ripples out and out, waking the leviathan. The flap of a butterfly’s wings which touches of a hurricane half a world away. The coin sinking into a wishing well which changes the course of a life._

_Often, nothing happens. The stone lands, the water parts, the world spins on. But sometimes – just sometimes – the conditions are right. The coins land, sink through the water, still warm from the skin of a pair of wistful wish-makers. Two splashes, so close together as to be indistinguishable, two wishes, echoing the same loneliness._

_‘Please, let me find the cure for this knife against my soul.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELVISH TRANSLATIONS (if not included in main text):  
> All elvish is taken from the wonderful resource that is FenxShiral's Elvhen lexicon, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true  
> Any mistakes are completely and utterly my own. 
> 
> ~ mi'nas'sal'in - the intense feeling of missing something or someone that is deeply important or personal. similar to Brazilian "saudade" Lit. "The knife again in my soul."
> 
> Comments, criticisms, rage at my total and utter denial of Solavellan hell? Leave 'em all below. Ciao!
> 
> \- Copper
> 
> ETA: That moment when you fucked up your timeline and have to go back and shift everything back a day >.>


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _~I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream ~ ___

_‘Lath lanun’ven’ur’alas.’_

Solas lifts his gaze, blinking as the snow parts around him, a serene dance that lifts like a gauzy curtain to reveal the Lover’s Fountain, the empty courtyard of the Keep. He gazes around at the silent walls, everything dusted with ice and glowing silver in the moonlight, and lifts his hands to catch the gently falling flakes, his breath misting visibly in the air – yet despite his thin shirt and bare arms, he feels warm, comfortable even.

He follows the gravel path, drawn to the fountain and its silent, watchful lovers, locked in their eternal, stony embrace – drawn to the voice he can hear murmuring, unaware of their audience.

‘Light and shadow by turns, but always love.’

He waits. A shadow falls on the snow, a figure emerging from the dark side of the fountain and stepping into the moonlight, barefoot on the flags, gilded in moonlight and frost, her pale hair turning her ethereal and ghostly in the hushed breath of the winter night.

 _‘Lean i banal’ras hasal, y uth lath.’_ Solas says, proud of how steady his voice is. She jumps, gaze lifting from her perusal of the fallen snow beneath her bare toes, and he finds himself pinned by dark, startled eyes.

‘Oh!’ she says, then again, less surprised and more amused. ‘Oh my. Well, I suppose my imagination decided to go all out tonight. Or perhaps I’ve stumbled into _your_ dream, surprisingly erudite stranger?’

‘Perhaps you have.’ Solas says, daring to step a little closer, reaching out to brace his hand against the curved lip of the fountain basin, unconsciously mimicking her pose. ‘Or perhaps we’ve both stumbled into theirs?’

He tips his chin at the silent lovers, and she laughs, lifting her head in profile to him to gaze up at the statues, her movements graceful and assured.

‘Perhaps we have.’ she says, and wrinkles her nose. ‘This is getting very metaphysical. Usually my dreams are far less...linear.’

‘Am I figment of your imagination, then?’ Solas enquires, and she hops up to perch comfortably on the edge of the basin, her smile warm.

‘I would have thought it was a logical explanation.’ she said. ‘Leli made me do the coin toss, and tonight I dream of being all alone with a handsome, educated man. Gosh it sounds sad when you put it like that, doesn’t it? Maybe she’s right, I do need to get out more.’

‘The coin toss.’ Solas repeats woodenly, and can’t help but laugh as he looks at the statues with new respect. ‘Well. Perhaps the legends are true after all.’

‘....Oh?’ she teases, comfortable and familiar in the way one can only be in dreams. ‘Let me guess, figment of my imagination – you’re going to tell me you paid tribute to the _lathen_ as well?’

‘I did.’ Solas said mildly, and points into the water, where two coins – one silver, one copper – rest overlapping, the usual detritus of wishes swept away so only they remain, resting in a moonbeam. ‘I believe the copper is mine.’

‘Only a copper?’ she asks, peering over his shoulder. ‘A cheap wish.’

‘In my defence, I was only demonstrating the tradition to an out of town colleague.’ he says, straightening to find her suddenly very close. There is a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, too faded to be easily seen, and oddly enchanting. ‘...I didn’t realise I was making a wish until the words had been said.’

‘And yet...’ she says, spreading her arms in a ‘ _ta-da!’_ gesture ‘...here you are.’

‘Here I am.’ he agrees, leaning his hip comfortably against the stone. ‘And here you are, _lea’vune_.’

‘Pardon?’ she says, laughing. ‘That’s a new one.’

‘If either of us is a figment of imagination, it must surely be you.’ he says. ‘Or perhaps you are a spirit of moonlight come to haunt my dreams.’

She cracks up, nearly slipping from the stone, and he can’t help but smile at her mirth.

‘I bet you tell that to all the strange women you find hanging around fountains.’ she tells him, wiping the corner of her eye. ‘If you are a figment of my subconscious, where’s all that charm during the daytime, huh? I could use some of that.’

‘You seem plenty charming enough, my friend.’ he says, mock-solemnly. ‘But I swear, I am flesh and blood.’

She considers him, and looks up at the statue again.

‘If you are...’ she says slowly, ‘...the implications...’

‘The implications.’ he agrees. ‘Do you know the story of this statue?’

‘I know the legend, if that’s what you mean.’ she says, and taps the plaque embedded in the stone below her perch with one bare heel. ‘You toss a coin into the water, and the _lathen_ will grant you dreams of your true love for seven nights.’

‘That is the legend.’ he agrees, and touches the plaque as well, where the phrase is engraved in Tevene. ‘But not the story of the fountain itself. This is a Tevene replica of a far older statue, found in the forests of Arlathan and believed to date back to the time of Elvhenan. They say the craftmaster who carved this one hid some of the stone from the original within the statues somewhere, and that is why it has magic. Up until now...I had dismissed it as a fanciful story.’

‘It does seem more likely that one of us is a piece of undigested cheese than that the legend is true.’ she says, and rises to her feet, balanced on the lip of the basin, before stepping down into the water. It comes to her knees, the hem of her pale skirt trailing across the surface of the water as she steps across to the central plinth to examine the man and woman locked in an eternal embrace, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped. She raises an eyebrow at what she sees, catches his gaze, and taps one pointed ear.

‘I did say Tevene replica.’ Solas tells her. ‘I assume the original was not of two humans.’

She stoops, plunging her hand into the water, and emerges holding both their coins, shining wet in the moonlight.

‘So you threw a coin, I threw a coin...’ she said, and looks up at him, gaze challenging. ‘When?’

‘This morning.’ he says promptly, then pauses. ‘That is...I believe it was this morning. Time seems...slower, here.’

‘Dream time.’ she says, the corner of her mouth quirking. ‘Measured in moonlight.’

She lets the coins fall again, tumbling over into the water – and inhales sharply.

‘What is it?’ Solas demands, braced to vault over the stone, a dormant protective instinct surging up in his chest.

‘The coins – they snapped back together.’ she says, tone wondering. ‘Like magnets.’

She lifts her gaze to meet his, dark eyes curious and assessing, and Solas relaxes slowly, sinking back to the ground.

‘Well.’ he says, and offers her his hand. ‘I suppose there’s one way to be sure.’

The water parts smoothly about her bare calves as she returns to the lip of the basin and takes his hand after a long, weighted pause, warm and dry to the touch as she steps up onto the rim. Solas catches her waist, the movement easy and instinctual, and steadies her as she steps down, forcing himself to take a step back once she is safely on solid ground – but she keeps her hand tangled in his, lifting it to examine their intertwined fingers.

‘What’s that?’ she asks, her voice quiet, a little unsure.

‘We shall have to wake up.’ he says. ‘And dream of each other again tomorrow night.’

As he speaks, the moon sinks beneath the horizon, a thin band of golden light appearing along the eastern horizon, brightening quickly, and he feels something deep inside his chest tug uncomfortably, as if some invisible hand had wrapped itself around his heart and was pulling impatiently. He snatches his gaze back to her, startled, and sees his expression mimicked on her face, her eyes wide, the howling wind that springs out of nowhere lifting her pale hair into a streaming pennant, tinted gold by the rising sun.

‘Tomorrow night!’ he shouts over the noise, and feels her hand vanish from his, the courtyard swept away by the wind like a train vanishing into a dark tunnel.

 

*

 

Arla woke fast and hard, as if dropped from a great height into the metaphorical brick wall that was the dawn-lit world. As metaphors go, it was oddly painful.

‘What?’ she croaked, voice heavy with sleep, squinting at the familiar ceiling, the star-map Deshanna had gifted her years ago recreated in painstaking detail across the plaster. ‘ _What_?’

She sat up slowly, muscles aching, and stared at her own reflection in the mirror wardrobe door. Her eyes were wide, hair a riot of curlicues and cowlicks as if she’d spent the whole night tossing and turning – and she could still feel the touch of a hand in hers.

_Strong and warm, slender fingers that had spanned her waist when she hopped down from the fountain, a slow, curling smile and light, curious eyes._

 

Arla squeaked, slapped her hand over her mouth, caught sight of the clock, squeaked again, and bolted from the bed. She scattered through her morning routine, scraped her hair back into a low knot in lieu of the time to properly untangle it, swept the content of her side-table into her rucksack, and fled, locking the door behind her.

‘Hey tits!’ Sera greeted cheerfully from the stairwell, looking none the worse for wear after her adventure the previous night. Arla had often pondered on the construct of the younger woman’s liver, and concluded pure diamond was the only logical explanation. ‘Thanks for the beddy-byes, yeah? Those pills were a lifesaver.’

‘You’re welcome!’ Arla panted, swinging her rucksack onto her back and struggling to untangle her scarf from the straps. ‘Sorry Sera, I’m running really late - ’

‘Pshht, c’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’ she said easily, ducking back into her apartment and emerging with two motorcycle helmets. Arla stared at the one she offered, weighing up almost-certain death against the consequences of being late - and decided that, at least, the fiery embrace of eternity offered by Sera’s deathtrap of a bike would be quicker and less painful than whatever Leliana and Josephine would concoct for her.

‘You’re a gem.’ she said, taking the helmet and cramming it over her hair. ‘Let’s go!’

One hair-raising ride later had Sera screeching to a halt outside the shopping centre, hurling abuse at the bus she had just overtaken as Arla systematically unclenched her white-knuckled fingers from around the other woman’s waist and tottered from the bike, releasing her hair from beneath the helmet with a sense of deep, abiding relief.

‘Hahaha you’re the same colour as your hair, tits.’ Sera cackled, catching the helmet deftly as Arla tossed it back. ‘Even, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Arla smiled, and ducked close on unsteady legs to kiss Sera’s cheek. ‘Until next time at least. Tell Dagna I said hi when you pick her up alright?’

‘ _Widdle_.’ Sera said dreamily and took off into the traffic in a roar of smoke as Arla headed up the shopping centre steps and for the bookstore at a flat out run, tackling the internal stairs two at a time.

 

‘You’re not late.’ Cole told her, blinking owlishly from beneath the peak of his store-branded baseball cap, his blue eyes startled as she blew past him under the half open shutters to their floor. ‘It’s only eight.’

Arla froze, sagged, and dropped into one of the comfy chairs, sighing.

‘I _was_ late.’ she said. ‘Overslept. But then Sera gave me a lift on her deathtrap of her motorcycle and I guess she sped so much we made it up and then some.’

‘You look pale.’ Cole observed, then at the twitch of her mouth, amended this to ‘more than usual, I mean.’

‘I’m pretty sure I just escaped the jaws of death by a few scant inches of exhaust pipe.’ she told him solemnly, getting to her feet. ‘I’m entitled to a little bloodlessness after that. I’m going to clean myself up and go grab a coffee before I tackle stock, do you want anything?’

‘Hot chocolate?’ he asked, still shy even after months of working their floor.

‘One white hot chocolate with marshmallows coming up.’ Arla told him, and squeezed him in a brief hug as she passed. ‘How you’re not permanently bouncing off the walls with sugar rush I’ll never know.’

‘Practice.’ he said solemnly, only the sparkle of his eyes giving away the joke, and she shook her head, laughing as she ducked in the ladies bathroom in the cafe to make use of their larger mirror, digging through the detritus of her bag to find what she actually needed after the ‘grab and go’ approach the morning had taken.

‘Boo!’ Josephine called, poking her head around the door, and winced as a handful of cosmetics clattered to the floor, the echo underscored by Arla’s barely restrained yelp. ‘Are you alright? I wasn’t even trying to sneak up on you!’

‘It’s been an unsettling kind of morning.’ Arla sighed, crouching to gather her powder and mascara. ‘I overslept and Sera gave me a lift in.’

Josephine blanched. ‘Say no more.’

Arla dug her comb from her bag and gave her friend a hopeful look in the reflection, eyes pleading. Josie laughed, taking it from her.

‘You’re lucky I love your hair – I mean, you.’ she said, teasing. ‘The stock for tomorrow is all here, and the bits for the display. You’re working overtime to set it up, right?’

‘Yes, after last time we decided it would be best to do it after the store closes to the general public.’ Arla said darkly, applying a thin line of kohl to her upper lashline with quick hands, followed by a light coat of mascara. ‘I never want to deal with those kinds of superfans ever again. I’m all for supporting your favourite authors – I work in a _bookstore_ , of course I am – but that wasn’t support, that was just rudeness.’

‘It was a bit messy.’ Josie agreed, capturing the upper layers of her hair in a French braid running back from her temples and gathering the rest into a simple ponytail. ‘There, that should keep it out your face. I’ll be in the office if you need me, Leliana has a meeting across town. Oh, and Mr Tethras might be popping by this afternoon to go over last minute details for tomorrow.’

‘Is there any reason you don’t just call him Varric?’ Arla asked curiously over her shoulder as she repacked her makeup and bundled the whole thing into her rucksack along with her scarf and gloves. ‘You do when we have brunch with him.’

‘I prefer to maintain a professional distance.’ Josie said, sticking her nose in the air. ‘Also I know it drives him round the twist.’

‘This is payback for the Ruffles thing, isn’t it?’ Arla laughed, following her from the restroom to the back office to hang up her coat and bag, tugging her wallet from her pocket.

‘I wore that blouse in his presence _once_.’ Josephine muttered. ‘Once! Are you going to the cafe? Could you...’

‘One Earl Grey Lavender coming up.’ Arla said, casting a fond smile over her shoulder as Josephine clasped her hands together in mimic of a thankful prayer. She ducked under the shutters and crossed the mostly empty floor of the centre to where the cafe was already up and running, providing the staff of the various stores with their much needed caffeine before the main doors opened.

‘Morning Krem! Ooh, I like your hair.’

The sleepy-eyed barista looked up from his textbook with a blush – revealing a large bruise marring his cheek. Arla tutted, touching his chin with gentle fingers to turn his head into the light. ‘A souvenir from your game?’

‘Fraid so.’ he said, sheepish. ‘We won though!’

‘I know, Sera told me all about it when she arrived on the fire escape as the sun was coming up.’ Arla smiled. ‘I bet Bull was proud.’

‘He’s so embarrassing.’ Krem muttered, ducking his head, but it did nothing to hide the pleased curve of his mouth as he started the milk steaming. ‘Let me guess – white hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, lavender earl grey, strong, black coffee with extra espresso, and one lapsang souchong.’

‘Go on the first three, hold on the last – Leliana’s at a meeting across town for the morning.’ Arla said, pulling her loyalty card from her wallet for him to stamp. ‘You don’t usually work Tuesday mornings, don’t you have class?’

‘I’m covering for Maryden.’ he sighed. ‘She had a big gig last night, over at Redcliffe, there was no way she’d be back in time. I had practice until eight last night and then my coding class and an assignment due at the end of the week - I think I got about four hours sleep. But M’s swapped so she’s opening tomorrow, and Lace is coming on at twelve, so I can head off after the lunch rush.’

He shot her a look from under his eyelashes as he whipped up Cole’s hot chocolate and set the espresso machine running. ‘Does that pass muster, Mum?’

‘I think I’d remember adopting you.’ she said, flicking the end of his nose as he passed. ‘For a start, you’re less likely to kill me by motorbike than my other wayward stray.’

‘Cole?’ he grinned. ‘I’d like to see that.’

‘You know perfectly well I meant Sera.’ she scolded, scavenging together the change in her purse to cover their drinks and tugging him down to drop a kiss on the neatly shaved side of his smart undercut. ‘Did you ask Lace out yet?’

‘I’m working up to it!’ he said, immediately turning scarlet.

‘Call me Mum, I’ll meddle like a mum.’ she said sweetly, taking the cardboard tray of drinks he slid across the counter and ducking to avoid the snap of his teatowel. ‘Make sure you take a nap later!’

She strode out off the cafe to the sound of his sputtering, waving to Cullen and his mabari as they made their morning round, both of them wearing the smart blue jackets of the security guards. Cavall was too well trained to bark at the sight of her, but he dropped his shoulders in a playful bow, tail wagging furiously before Cullen tapped the back of his skull gently, returning her wave with a bright grin as she ducked back under the shutters and handed Cole his hot chocolate, delivered Josie’s tea to the office, and absconded to the stock room with her coffee and phone, determined to banish the sensation of a warm hand in hers with the weight of endless hardback copies of Varric’s new bestseller.

 

*

 

The heavy thud of a pile of essays landing before him on the desk had Solas jerking half out of his seat, covering his mortification at having been caught daydreaming with a flustered cough. Dorian peered down at him, looking bewildered.

‘Are you alright?’ he queried. ‘You were miles away.’

‘My apologies.’ Solas said shortly, pulling the stack towards him with a distasteful grimace. ‘I was...contemplating.’

‘Dozing, more like.’ Dorian said, slumping in the chair before the desk. ‘Don’t look at them like that, you’re the one that slipped up and said ‘write an essay’. Fatal words those.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ Solas asked pointedly. Dorian harrumphed, getting to his feet again and rummaging in his satchel.

‘Now you mention it, I’m meeting Bull for dinner.’ he said haughtily. ‘I came to deliver those – and this. Something I found in the archives at the Keep yesterday, after you’d left. It talks some more about the original statue from Arlathan, and mentions that story about part of the stone being incorporated into the copy. Thought you might be interested.’

He dropped the folded photocopy on top of the stack of essays and sailed on his way with a haughty flip of his smart collar, clearly miffed by his supervisor’s attitude. Solas waved off the faint twinge of regret at his brusqueness – if he didn’t offend Dorian in some small way at least twice in the working day, the postgraduate would probably drop dead from shock.

He brushed his fingers over the photocopy, then set it firmly aside, pulling the stack of essays towards him instead. He had woken that morning dazed and disorientated, and had spent the day in a bewildered fog, severely affecting his productivity. He was determined to get some meaningful work out of the day, one way or another.

Three essays down the pile, deeply disheartened by the vile abuse heaped upon the common comma by his first-year students, he returned to the photocopy, unable to ignore it any longer. He skimmed over most of it, recognising it as a retelling of the same legend he had related to Dorian the previous day, and stopped at the second to last paragraph.

‘ _Legend has it that a piece of the original statue was hidden within the bodies of the two lovers by the same Tevene craftsman who so stridently objected to the alteration of their race. In this way, the lovers of Arlathan were allowed to live on, hidden in plain sight – though there is little evidence to support this hearsay save the scribbles of the carver’s apprentice, who mentions his master talking about the idea in his logbook. Nowhere is it recorded whether or not it was followed up or proved impossible, and there is no obvious visual clues in the statue to suggest it was. However, to this day hopeful romantics toss coins into the waters in tribute, hoping that some of the lost magic of Arlathan might linger._

A chime from his laptop distracted him from the paper and he folded it hastily, pushing it into his briefcase guiltily with one hand as he reached for the machine with the other and opened up his email.

_Dear Professor Harel_

_We regret to inform you that your most recent work discussing the evidence for hidden maps and layers among ancient elvhen mosaics will not be put forward for publication by the department. The Board does not believe this research fits with the overall direction of the department, and is unwilling to embroil itself in the current political climate. We apologise for any disappointment this may cause you, and look forward with interest to your future work. Should you wish to discuss this, my door is always open._

_Y_ _ours sincerely,_

_Madame Vivienne de Fer_

_Chair of Department for Ancient Archaeology_

 

Solas shut the laptop with a decisive click and braced his elbows on his desk, eyes closed as he dug the heels of his hands savagely against them, fighting down the swirling mass of frustration and disappointment that welled up. He’d known they would never publish it, not with the current debate raging about the Tevinter Imperium’s ransacking – _or in their words, ‘preservation’_ – of the ruins of ancient Arlathan. It gathered too much evidence against claims of Tevene superiority – they could hardly have constructed the mosaics themselves if they were totally unaware of the coded meanings behind the tiles. Unfortunately, it seemed, he had allowed himself to hope that this time would be different.

With a savage curse he slammed the laptop shut and shoved it into his briefcase along with the unmarked essays, snatching his blazer from the peg by the door and locking the office behind him, ignoring the curious looks of his colleagues as he left the building, unable to remain a moment longer. Outside the light was beginning to fade, the autumn sunsets coming earlier each day, and he drew in a deep breath of the chilly mountain air, struggling to master his anger as he walked to his car and tossed his briefcase in the back, sinking into the driver’s seat and resting his hands on the wheel, lost in thought.

What awaited him at home? A sparse, empty apartment, filled with his beloved books and little else – no companionship to turn to for comfort or friendly ear to listen. A night of grading sub-par papers barely rescued by a handful of ‘diamonds in the rough’ that showed some promise – and, in the morning, an icy meeting with Madame de Fer because he was too hard-headed to admit defeat gracefully.

He sighed, and started the car for the drive home.

 

*

 

‘Hellooo?’

‘Back here!’ Arla called, recognising the familiar drawl as she stepped back to examine the diorama she had finished putting together in the stock room, comparing it to the picture tacked up on the wall. The rest of the decorations for the signing had been itemised and laid out neatly alongside a list of what precisely would need doing to set them up in the morning, and all that was left was making sure she hadn’t put the life-size cutout of the main character’s head on back to front.

‘Specs! I thought I might have missed you.’ Varric said expansively, strolling towards her. He grinned up at the diorama, hands on his hips.

‘Aveline’s still pissed at how much Red looks like her.’ he confided in a gloating tone. ‘I get angry emails every time someone stops her in the street for a photograph.’

‘You’re horrid.’ Arla scolded, settling cross legged on the floor in front of the diorama to attach the little weights that would hold it in place. Varric leant over to plant a smacking kiss on her temple and wandered away to the table to look over the stacks of books and the schedule, his little half-moon glasses resting on his nose.

‘Heard from your _Baba_ lately?’  he asked, thumbing through a stack of signed bookmarks.

‘Not for a couple of weeks, but that’s normal when he’s travelling.’ Arla said absently. ‘He sent me the most hideous wicker statue of a halla, supposedly it’s a replica of a statue in a ruined temple to Ghilan’nain. Turned up on my doorstep without a word of explanation, you should have seen the courier’s face. I’m using it as a hat rack. Speaking of _Babala_ , when are you going to stop calling me Specs? I don’t even have spectacles!’

‘Never.’ he said solemnly. ‘To me, you’ll always be the scrap of an elfling trying to read a book the size of your head, your _Baba’s_ spare glasses balanced on your tiny nose.’

‘Horrid.’ Arla repeated, pointing at him warningly, and got to her feet, groaning as she stretched her back out. ‘Ow. All done, I think.’

‘Looks good.’ Varric congratulated absently, absorbed in the journal he had picked up from the table. Arla squawked, reaching for it, but he evaded her.

‘Still working on those big dreams, hm?’ he said, lifting it up. ‘Kid, you know Deshanna wouldn’t want you working yourself to the bone for this. He’s having the time of his life travelling, he doesn’t want the shop back.’

‘Well, maybe I do.’ Arla snapped, and took the journal, folding it away in her rucksack, cheeks burning. Varric touched her arm, gentle.

‘C’mon.’ he said. ‘Let your honorary Uncle take you out for dinner. It’s been a long time since I had chance to catch up with you.’

‘I’m not a charity case, Varric.’ she snapped, knowing she was being sensitive and unable to stop it.

‘Did I say you were?’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Specs, c’mon. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just want to spend some time with you. It’s been a while. I mean, the last time I was in town you were still dating _Bran_.’

‘....two conditions.’ Arla said. ‘We don’t talk about the shop, and we don’t talk about Bran.’

‘Deal.’ Varric said promptly, and shook on it. ‘Go grab your things and start thinking about where you want to go, I’ll bring the car round to the front.’

He ducked under the half-open shutter at the front of the store, pausing halfway to grin at her.

‘You do realise that doesn’t stop me asking about current boys, right?’ he asked slyly, and dodged away before she could hurl a book at him, her growl of outrage, following him from the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELVISH TRANSLATIONS (if not included in main text):  
> All elvish is taken from the wonderful resource that is FenxShiral's Elvhen lexicon, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true  
> Any mistakes are completely and utterly my own.
> 
> Lath lanun’ven’ur’alas - lit, 'Love's Blessing'.  
> Lean i banal’ras hasal, y uth lath. - My very crude translation of 'Light and Shadow by turns, but always Love' and if any of you know from this which book I've smashed into 'In My Dreams' to make up the mythology of the fountain, I will write you a short piece of your choice set in this universe. (I'll also reference it at the end of the work).  
> Lathen - lovers  
> Lea'vune - moonlight
> 
> (If I missed any please let me know).  
> Comments, criticisms, abject sobbing about eggy feels, all are welcome!  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

  
‘You sure you’re alright Specs?’

Arla jerked, banging her temple against the cool glass of the car window, and cursed quietly under her breath, rubbing at the sore spot. Varric roared with laughter even as he shifted lanes smoothly, heading away from the town centre towards her apartment building.

‘Jeez, am I that boring? I remember when you used to hang onto my every word.’

‘I was thirteen.’ Arla said darkly, letting her head loll back against the headrest. ‘I had a sheltered upbringing, you were exotic. The shine wore off quickly.’

‘I’m hurt Specs, I’m hurt. Seriously though, you’ve been in a daze all night. Are you getting enough sleep?’

 The elf from the previous night flashed through her minds eye, the weight of his hand in hers, the curious tilt of his enigmatic smile, and Arla felt herself blush hotly, glad of the darkened car interior that mostly hid her face in shadow.

 ‘Mm.’ she said noncommittally. ‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’

‘Well if last year’s signing was anything to go buy, tomorrow promises to be another one.’ Varric groaned, pulling the sleek little car to a smooth halt outside her building. ‘Scoot and go to bed kiddo, just looking at you is making me sleepy. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Arla leaned over the gearshift and planted a smacking kiss against his temple, feeling faintly guilty for her distracted air. For all he claimed the title with enthusiasm, Varric wasn’t _really_ family after all – he had no obligation to treat her as one would a much-loved niece.

‘Sorry I’ve been a bear.’ she said. ‘It’s just been one of those days. Are you busy for lunch tomorrow? We could go up to the Herald’s Rest.’

‘My second-favourite hole-in-the-wall!’ Varric said expansively. ‘Sounds good. Goodnight kid – get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need your energy tomorrow!’

 

She waved at the car as she entered the building, knowing full well he wouldn’t drive away until he was sure she was safe in her apartment – and sure enough, when she went to the lit window with Mial purring happily in her arms, the car flashed its headlights from the street below before pulling away.

‘He’s such a worrywart.’ Arla told the cat affectionately, holding him up to her face so she could nuzzle her forehead against his. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I know Sera fed you, she sent me a picture.’

She relented in the face of his heartbroken expression, shaking out a handful of dry food into a dish and taking it to the wide window ledge, settling with her legs tucked underneath her so she could stroke the cat as he tried to purr and eat simultaneously.

‘One day you’re going to choke and I’m going to have to work out how to use the Heimlich on a cat.’ Arla said sternly, tugging gently on the end of his lazily twitching tail. ‘And then you’ll be sorry.’

He refused to dignify her with an answer, settling down to wash his whiskers as she rested her head against the cool glass and gazed out over the city.

 ‘What if it wasn’t just a dream, Mial?’ she said quietly. ‘He could be out there right now. One of those lights could be his. Or...he could be miles away I suppose.’

 She shook her head, briskly banishing the disquieting thought.

‘I’ve been reading too many of Varric’s books.’ she said to the cat. ‘Don’t tell him I said that.’

 

*

 

The room around her is cavernous, dark and echoing – it reminds her of the Chantry she had been taken into by a kind sister in Ostwick when she had lost her parents in the bustle of the winter markets. It had been late at night, a few candles lit at the feet of the Andrastian statue, but otherwise dark and echoing, though not at all frightening. The air had been dry and smelt of incense, every sound hushed and echoing in the vast space.

 She turns a corner, trailing her fingers along the stone, and comes face to face with an ornate arched mirror, sealed behind clear glass. It reflects her clearly despite the shadows and the spiderweb cracks running through it, her bare feet and loose hair, her favourite, worn jeans and a forest-green jumper Leliana had gifted her years previous, a hole in one cuff she habitually sticks her thumb through.

 _‘It’s...maybe a good thing he doesn’t seem to be here_.’ Arla decides, examining herself.  ‘ _I might as well have turned up in my pyjamas.’_

She sidesteps the mirror to find more cases of glass and stone leading deeper into the room, elvhen artefacts displayed under low lights, and traces the carved letters in one plaque thoughtfully, leaning close to examine the letters proclaiming the mosaic sealed behind the display case to be Arlathian in origin, depicting the rebellion of Fen’Harel in polished shards of coloured stone.

‘The _Revas_ mosaics.’ Arla breathes aloud, startled into giving voice to the name that flashed into her mind. ‘What on Thedas is this place?’

‘A dream.’

Arla jumps three feet sideways, hands flying up defensively as a squeak of fright escapes her, echoingly loud in the vaulted room. On the other side of the display case, the shaven-headed elvhen man meet her gaze through the glass, his pale eyes wide, the beginning of a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

‘Not – funny - ’ Arla wheezes, bending double as she struggles to get her hammering heart under control, hands pressed to her chest. She can feel herself turning scarlet with embarrassment and sends up a prayer of thanks to whatever deity might be listening that the space around them is too shadowed to make out details.

‘ _Ir abelas.’_ he says, and she tilts her head enough to be able to peer suspiciously up at him through the curtain of her hair. He’s still smiling, but it is, at least, an abashed smile, one long-fingered hand rubbing sheepishly at the nape of his neck, and something in her chest ties itself in an uncomfortable knot at the sight of him, his pale feet bare on the stone, loose cotton trousers skimming the tops of his feet, a long-sleeved top in dark, muted blue. She wonders if it’s what he wears to sleep in, then at herself for so quickly falling into the trap of thinking him a real person, not just a figment of her imagination.

The silence stretches on. He lets his hand fall, looking more than a little lost, and Arla straightens, taking a deep breath and pushing her hair back.

‘It was not my intention to startle you.’ he says. ‘I did not realise you were unaware of my presence.’

Arla scratches her cheek with the tip of one finger, looking sheepishly at her feet. ‘Alright, I will admit to being very easily distracted in the face of ancient artefacts I never thought I’d have the chance to see.’

She screws up all her courage and meets his gaze suddenly – possibly a little intently, if the way he twitches is anything to go by.

‘Hello again. Is this the part where you tell me you’re not a dream?’

He smiles, and the expression transforms the elegant planes of his face into something open, almost playful, and Arla struggles to keep her expression neutral as something kicks hard in her chest.

‘I said that the only way to be sure was to dream of each other again – and here we are.’ he said, one arm sweeping an elegant circle to describe the silent hall around them. Arla turns on her heel to gaze around, as softly muted lamps fire into life, beating back the shadows, each display case lit in a golden glow. The room is even bigger than she had realised, archways at either end leading into further galleries where she can see more displays, the roof an intricate panel of glass segments supported by delicately wrought iron and carved stone. The moon shines brightly above them, appearing in an out of passing clouds, silver warring with the golden lamps, and light rain fills the space with the shushed tip-tap of water on glass.

‘Here indeed.’ she murmurs. ‘This is...a museum dedicated to elvhen history? I thought no such place existed.’

‘It doesn’t.’

His voice is melancholy now, and she turns to see him standing frowning up at the cracked mirror, his arms wrapped around his chest in gesture she immediately recognises as the posture of the defensive.

‘This is your dream.’ she says, realisation sparking through her, bright as the moonlight cutting through the clouds. ‘Your sanctuary.’

She approaches him slowly and he watches her from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t back away.

‘A sanctuary that does not - and will likely never - exist.’ he says heavily, and there is something so defeated in the slumped line of his shoulders that Arla finds herself reaching for him without thought, resting her hand on his forearm. He is warm through the thin cotton of his soft top, and she silently curses the blush it brings rushing once again to her cheeks even as she meets his gaze.

‘Are you able to see the future now?’ she says, daring. ‘Or read minds?’

The looks he gives her screams ‘ _what kind of question is that?’_ , and she smiles. ‘I thought perhaps this mysteriously magical fountain had bestowed extra gifts upon you, but maybe not. In which case, perhaps this place will exist one day. You can’t say for sure.’

He stares at her, then laughs, a short, punched-out sound.

‘Your optimism shames me, _lethallan_.’

‘I’ll confess an ulterior motive.’ Arla says, offering him a crooked smile. ‘I would _love_ to see a place like this in reality.’

He regards her with an inscrutable expression, head tilted, and she realizes her hand is still pressed to his forearm – but before she can pull back, he catches it in his, gentle and implacable.

‘Do you still believe me to be a figment of your imagination, then?’ he asks, and she hesitates, caution warring with wild hope.

‘I don’t know what to believe.’ she says eventually. ‘I don’t understand any of this. If it keeps happening, then perhaps...’

‘The legend calls for seven nights of dreaming.’ he says. ‘This is the second. If we are to spend the next five nights in each other’s company...I would ask what I might call you.’

She breathes slowly, considers, and meets his gaze.

‘A name for a name, then?’

‘Fair trade.’ he agrees with a nod. ‘My name is Solas.’

There is a defensive catch in the way he says it, as if he is waiting for her to question it – for he knows already that she speaks at least a little of the old language, and the first thing that runs through her mind is _what parent in their right mind would call their child ‘Pride’?_

‘Arla.’ she says instead. ‘My name is Arla.’

_Yes, see, I can’t judge – my parents technically named me ‘house’._

‘Arla.’ he repeats, and there again is that devastating smile. ‘ _Andaran atish’an,_ Arla. A Dalish name?’

‘Yes.’ she says, surprised.

‘A derivation of Arlise.’ he says, and quirks a brow at her expression, spreading his free hand to encompass their surroundings in a gesture. ‘Really, did you not think I would be an insufferable know-it-all about this sort of thing?’

She can’t help but laugh. ‘Silly me. Yes, my parents wanted my name to hark back to the Tales of Arlise.’

‘Moralistic stories of the first _arlise’amelan.’_ he muses. ‘The _ashalan_ who bested the Dread Wolf with her cleverness.’

‘They had high hopes for me.’ she says dryly, and he finally relinquishes her hand. The absence of warmth against her skin makes something deep inside her ache sadly. ‘That or they knew themselves well enough to that any child sharing their blood would get up to no end of trouble and could really do with learning some of those Tales.’

His smile is a quick, warm thing, his gaze fixed on her face, and it makes her blush like the teenager she hasn’t been for nearly a decade now, scolding herself mentally as she bears up under his scrutiny.

‘So what now?’ she asks, resisting the urge to fidget.

‘What indeed.’ he says gravely, and looks around them. ‘I suppose, we should take the opportunity to get to know each other – unless you wish to look at the exhibits?’

She bites her lip thoughtfully, torn between two choices. ‘....How about both?’

Solas laughs, solemnly offers her his arm, and she loops hers through it before she can talk herself out of it, lets him steer her towards the nearest display case.

‘So if this is your dream, I assume you work in this area?’ she asks, and he nods.

‘I’m a researcher, of antiquities is the best way to put it I suppose. I specialise on rise and fall of Arlathan and artifacts dating back to those days. But you seem very knowledgeable yourself, lethallan – is our history an area of interest to you as well?’

‘Very much so.’ Arla says, smiling. ‘Though I don’t have any formal schooling in it. I - ’

She hesitates, but the low light and quiet rain drumming against the roof turn the museum into a place made for telling quiet secrets, the kind that aren’t so much as secret as they are just held close and rarely shown. The light of day would be too harsh, too blinding and raw, but here it was hushed and calm, Solas a warm line against her side where their arms interlocked, his expression open and curious.

‘I was a First, in my clan.’ she says, after a pause. ‘...The last First, actually.’

She feels him stiffen briefly in surprise, sees confusion flit across his face in the reflections surrounding them in the glass cases, and barrels on before he can ask.

‘My clan disbanded when I was sixteen. We were already very, very small – over the years our young ones had chosen other paths, be that to leave the traditional life on the reservations or to marry into larger, more powerful clans. There was a handful of us left, we didn’t even live on the reservation anymore – our Keeper had been forced to sell our stake and we moved into the outskirts of Ostwick when I was about ten. Not long after that, my parents were killed in a road accident, and our elders began to talk seriously of disbanding. He still trained me up as his First, though I think more to distract me from losing my parents than from any real need. By the time the next Arlathvhen rolled around, we had decided to formally disband the clan – those who wished to continue living as Dalish were taken in by other clans, and I was a First no more.’

‘....where did you go?’

His voice is low, more than a little sad, and she smiles at him, because it doesn’t hurt the way it had, seeing the Lavellan tapestry struck from the circle of flags to be consigned to history – not now, with years and experience, letters from her cousins who had moved into the other clans, four years of healing in the little apartment she had shared with Deshanna, the world opening up before them.

‘The Keeper took me in.’ she said. ‘He’s my Great-Uncle, though I call him _Babala_. He was determined we would both get a good, fresh start, take the chance to see parts of the world we hadn’t before, so we crossed the sea and came here, opened a bookstore. We lived together until I went off to University at Skyhaven, and then he sold the bookstore and went travelling. He sends me all sorts of weird and wonderful things from all over Thedas. Like that!’

Solas blinks, turning to look in the direction of her pointing hand, and makes a choking noise.

‘What is _that_?’ he demands, releasing her arm to circle the wicker monstrosity as Arla sags against a stone column, fighting back breathless laughter.

‘I don’t know, but in the real world I’m using it as a coat rack.’ she gasped. ‘Oh, your _face_ \- ’

He looks precisely the same way she does on the odd occasion Mial manages to catch wildlife from the apartment’s gardens and deposit them in the middle of her kitchen floor, though she doesn’t think he’ll appreciate the comparison.

‘Is it – a halla?’ he asks eventually. ‘How did it get in here?’

‘I must have been thinking about it.’ Arla says. ‘Supposedly it’s a replica of a statue in a ruined temple dedicated to Ghilan’nain – or at least, that’s what it said on the postcard he sent with it.’

‘It’s hideous.’ Solas says, clearly bewildered by its very existence.

‘My cat won’t go within three feet of it.’ Arla says. ‘I think it might be possessed. I wonder if there are other things in here that I’ve dreamt of?’

She skirts around the halla to the next display case, and finds the glass insubstantial to the touch, allowing her to plunge her hand through a withdraw a small polished box she had last seen when she had boxed up her parents things to store in her airing cupboard, too short on space in her modest apartment to have them out but too attached to throw them away.

‘Is this also yours?’ Solas asks quietly, coming up behind her, and where normally it would have made her startle she finds herself leaning imperceptibly back against the reassuring warmth and solidity of him.

‘It was my mothers.’ she says, soft. ‘I’d almost forgotten it...it’s a music box. I wonder....’

She winds the small silver key in the back of the box, brushing her fingers over the brass inlay of Dalish knotwork, and lifts the lid gently. A plinth in the centre rises as a delicate tune begins to play, revealing tiny figures carved with exquisite delicacy – a mother and father leaning over a crib in which their child slumbered as the plinth turned slowly. Arla hums softly under her breath, the words coming unbidden across the years.  
  


‘ _Elgara vallas, da'len,_  
_Melava somniar_  
_Mala tara aravas  
_ _Ara ma'desen melar_

_Iras ma ghilas, da'len_  
_Ara ma'nedan ashir_  
_Dirthara lothlenan'as  
_ _Bal emma mala dir_

  
Tel'enfenim, da'len  
_Irassal ma ghilas_  
_Ma garas mir renan_  
_Ara ma'athlan vhenas  
_ _Ara ma'athlan vhenas’_

The music winds to a halt, and she closes the box gently, laying it back on the velvet cushion of the display case, the glass as insubstantial as water around her fingers. At her shoulder, Solas is silent, but he rests his hand on the small of her back, comforting and intimate.

‘You sing beautifully.’ he says quietly. ‘I have not heard that one before.’

‘I’m surprised I remembered the words.’ she confesses, and turns to face him, abruptly aware of how close they are, scant inches between them. His hand still sits on the small of her back, his arm now resting gently in the curve of her waist, and she cannot resist the impulse to lay her palms against his chest, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. He gazes down at her, his eyes intent, and she can feel his own heart beating rapid time beneath her hands

‘....who _are_ you?’ he says, and the question is clearly rhetorical for all it is also completely genuine, his voice layered with wonder and bafflement.

‘I told you.’ she manages, her voice admirable even. ‘I’m just Arla.’

‘I don’t think you’re ‘just’ anything.’ he says, his voice low, and he brushes her hair back behind her ear with his free hand, tracing the line of her jaw as she fights the urge to sway into his touch, the simple brush of skin on skin. It feels like there is a spring in her chest, coiling tighter and tighter with restless energy, until she fears she might burst with this strange, aching longing.

Around them, the lamps begin to flicker out one by one, the racing clouds overhead turning pink and periwinkle with the onset of dawn, and Solas lets out a shuddering breath.

‘It seems our time is up.’ he murmurs, but neither of them move to relinquish each other, even as the air in the hall begins to stir, rising quickly into a tunnel of wind, the cases and pillars blown away as if they were no more substantial than mist. Arla hunches her shoulders against the painful tugging that settles in her chest, as if someone had sank a fishing line through her back, hauling her away to the dawn-lit world of reality, and she can see the same discomfort written in Solas’ face as he tightens his grasp around her waist.

‘Tomorrow night.’ she says, desperate despite her lingering disbelief at this entire, ludicrous situation. ‘Tomorrow night, I’ll – I’ll show you my dream. So you have to come.’

He rests his forehead against hers, close enough to kiss, as the wind howls louder and louder, almost pulling them off their feet.

‘I swear it.’ he says, achingly solemn – and then he is gone, the dawn light too bright to see past, her hands grasping empty air. There is a brief moment of wild confusion, the sensation of falling through a fractured kaleidoscope landscape, and then –

\- _darkness_.

 

*

 

Solas stared up at his ceiling, at the hand outstretched above him, reaching for something beyond his grasp, the sensation of warm skin and soft hair still tingling on his fingertips, a swiftly fading memory. He groaned, letting his hand fall back to the sheets with a thump, and glared at the dawn light peeking around the edges of his tightly closed curtains, illuminating his small bedroom in shades of pale, washed out gold and grey. The stacks of books formed dark pillars, a familiar, mundane landscape across his floorboards, and the flat was silent around him.

He drove himself from the bed with a muttered curse, flinging the curtains wide and strode for the shower, swallowing back the bitter taste of disappointment on his tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, just so as I can post SOMETHING. I'm so sorry for people who've been eager for the next part of this - as any of you who follow me on tumblr know, I started back at Uni late September, and between assignments, lectures, and my home responsibilities, life is kicking my butt. I feel guilty for not updating, but also guilty whenever I work on writing that isn't one of the essays I have coming out of my ears.  
> Irritatingly, I already have most of the last third of this written, (including the steamy bits) - its the chunk in the middle that's giving me trouble. WE'LL GET THERE. Here's another dream to tide you over. 
> 
> The song Arla sings is 'Mir Da'len Somniar' from the World of Thedas volumes, the music box arrangement that I was imagining is this beautiful one by totalspiffage on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So  
> You can find a translation to the lyrics in the video description, but it's basically a simple lullaby as sung by a parent to a dreaming child. 
> 
> I don't think there's anything else that needs to be included here but I'm posting this in a rush so please let me know if I've missed a translation or credit somewhere. I've decided this now fits into my incomplete solavellan reincarnation au, because I couldn't resist, so it's now part of the 'Tales of Arlise' series - though you don't need to read 'Hearthkeeper' to understand it.


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